Dear Blog,

Okay, I have become addicted to Twitter. It makes me feel connected to some strange collective consciousness. It’s yummy.

Anyway, one of my fellow mom/blogger/tweeter people sent out a tweet the other day that read like this.

Dear little man,

My bra is not a pocket.

Love,

Mama

I know her as MamaFreaksOut. I laughed at her tweet, not only because I can relate, but because I like it when people tweet in the form of a letter. People do it all the time. And I love it- every time. It seems personal and formal all at once. The dichotomy of it makes me giddy. (Sometimes it’s the simple things. Stop judging me.)

I decided that yesterday all my tweets would be in the form of a letter.  Here are some of them. And some others that I feel the need to write.

My mother says sometimes when you’re angry, it’s easier to write a letter to the person you’re angry at- that way you don’t yell. My husband says a letter is an unfair way of getting your point across, because the other person can’t talk back. My therapist said writing a letter can help you release feelings you are trying to squelch. I say, sometimes it’s just fun.

This makes me feel in touch with world around me, and just a little bit whimsical.  I swear, I did not take any crazy pills today.

Dear Universe,

I’d like to order 1 maid, 1 babysitter, 1 dog walker, an extra pair of hands, 12 hours of sleep, and a California Roll.  STAT

And after the deaths of John Hughes, Micheal Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, and Patrick Swayze:

Dear 2009,

Stop killing off my childhood. I’m starting to take it personally.

Dear lunch,

Please make yourself.

Dear Husband,

Sometimes I am wise… when I am done being stupid.

PS- where did you put my hairbrush?

Dear Mom,

Stop reading my blog. I know you’re here right now! I told you, it is not for you.

Dear Toddler,

Sometimes you are like a chimpanzee on crack. Please feel free to sit quietly and read a novel at any time.

Dear Jaywalker,

Please don’t try to stop my car with your body. I am sleepy and have slow reflexes.

Dear long blond hair hanging on my shower faucet,

I do not know who you belong to. Please go quietly.

Dear Marriage,

You are so gay. Or at least you should be.

With love,

MommyNaniBooboo